My Anatomy Paper
We were supposed to write a narrative about a carb, fat, or protein making its way through the digestive system. Pretty much the usual, "I enter the mouth. As the teeth break me up, salivary amylase blah blah blah...." Yeah. One of those. So, Nick Andriano and I worked together. He researched, I gave our carb a soul.
AL DENTE: PRIVATE EYE
Written By Andrew M.P. Wyslotsky
Illustrated By Nicholas C. Andriano (there was a picture with the copy we turned in. Just imagine Dick Tracy, in noodle form.)
I enter the mouth slowly, checking my surroundings as I begin a walk that will ultimately end in my doom. Large, enamel covered surfaces loom around me. These must be the teeth. Two pointed teeth, known in certain circles as the incisors, rip down, and tear my fluffy inside and crunchy outside into bits, The pain is unbearable, but I know that worse awaits me. The molars smash down, and grind me into smaller, more manageable bits. The salivary glands begin to pump out salivary amylase, which soaks into me as the constant grinding pounds me down. The amylase bites into me, slicing me into strands, like the scissors of a love lost.
Anne. She came to me on a dark night, a night that makes babies cry and lonely men drink. Her hair. The long, flowing locks, like an autumn sunset. She wanted me for the job. I was half in the bottle and half out of my mind, so I accepted.
“I need you. You’re the only man dumb enough to accept this kind of job, and you’re my last hope. I need to know how carbohydrates get through the digestive system.”
Jesus. She was right. I was dumb enough, and broke enough to take anything. After the Sumatran Rat incident, I needed the cash. Plus, she was a looker, and that didn’t hurt her case at all.
“I’ll take it. I want fifty up front, and another fifty after wouldn’t bother me.”
“You’ve got a deal. Be at The Mouth in half an hour. I’ll get you in, you do the rest.”
She threw the cash down on the table. Half an hour. Just enough time to get to the liquor store.
The tongue pushes me back, soaked in spit, and ready to start shooting. Fifty. Why would I do this for fifty? Anne was right. I was a drunk bastard, and an idiot to boot. This was a job that would go down in history. Or in my logbook. I get pushed to the pharynx, and enter the esophagus. Peristalsis pushes me down, slowly forcing my carbohydrate strands into the stomach. If I cared, I’d get a plastic surgeon after this. Fifty’s just enough for my kind of weekend.
The esophagus opens into the stomach, and I’m dropped down into a void of gastric juices. Pepsinogen, hydrochloric acid, and mucus are excreted by the fleshy walls of my prison and begin to break me apart. The stomach churns and crushes me as the juices burn through me, turning me into chyme.
The stomach finally pushes me through the pyloric sphincter into the small intestine. I know the worst is over, but I’m not gonna be the dark haired, mysterious P.I. I once was. I’d be lucky to work as a bouncer in the shady red light district night clubs I frequent on lonely nights. Hell, I’d seen worse, and I probably still would.
I knew what was coming next. The liver would ooze bile into the gallbladder. From there, it would enter the duodenum and lie there, waiting to end my meaningless existence. I had a death wish. Anne knew it. The duodenum begins to excrete another form of amylase to break me down into maltose, lactose, and sucrose. Simple sugars. Right back where I’d started. Maltase, lactase, and sucrase begin to chop me into smaller bits, where I then form glucose, and enter the bloodstream. After being broken down, I feel naked. Naked and alone. As I am absorbed through the intestinal walls to the bloodstream, I look back.
Anne. The dame with legs up to the sky, and an attitude that left me wanting more. I had been set up. It was a suicide mission. Nobody leaves the digestive system alive. I guess I had known that. Anne got out of this fifty cheaper, and I went into this fifty drunker. It was a job to die for, and I took it in a heartbeat.
From the Files of:
Al Dente: Private Eye
A modern P.I. novel.
Special thanks to:
Nicholas Chalmers Andriano, the best research assistant a man could ask for.
Andrew MP Wyslotsky (was originally a cursive font)
Andrew M.P. Wyslotsky
AL DENTE: PRIVATE EYE
Written By Andrew M.P. Wyslotsky
Illustrated By Nicholas C. Andriano (there was a picture with the copy we turned in. Just imagine Dick Tracy, in noodle form.)
I enter the mouth slowly, checking my surroundings as I begin a walk that will ultimately end in my doom. Large, enamel covered surfaces loom around me. These must be the teeth. Two pointed teeth, known in certain circles as the incisors, rip down, and tear my fluffy inside and crunchy outside into bits, The pain is unbearable, but I know that worse awaits me. The molars smash down, and grind me into smaller, more manageable bits. The salivary glands begin to pump out salivary amylase, which soaks into me as the constant grinding pounds me down. The amylase bites into me, slicing me into strands, like the scissors of a love lost.
Anne. She came to me on a dark night, a night that makes babies cry and lonely men drink. Her hair. The long, flowing locks, like an autumn sunset. She wanted me for the job. I was half in the bottle and half out of my mind, so I accepted.
“I need you. You’re the only man dumb enough to accept this kind of job, and you’re my last hope. I need to know how carbohydrates get through the digestive system.”
Jesus. She was right. I was dumb enough, and broke enough to take anything. After the Sumatran Rat incident, I needed the cash. Plus, she was a looker, and that didn’t hurt her case at all.
“I’ll take it. I want fifty up front, and another fifty after wouldn’t bother me.”
“You’ve got a deal. Be at The Mouth in half an hour. I’ll get you in, you do the rest.”
She threw the cash down on the table. Half an hour. Just enough time to get to the liquor store.
The tongue pushes me back, soaked in spit, and ready to start shooting. Fifty. Why would I do this for fifty? Anne was right. I was a drunk bastard, and an idiot to boot. This was a job that would go down in history. Or in my logbook. I get pushed to the pharynx, and enter the esophagus. Peristalsis pushes me down, slowly forcing my carbohydrate strands into the stomach. If I cared, I’d get a plastic surgeon after this. Fifty’s just enough for my kind of weekend.
The esophagus opens into the stomach, and I’m dropped down into a void of gastric juices. Pepsinogen, hydrochloric acid, and mucus are excreted by the fleshy walls of my prison and begin to break me apart. The stomach churns and crushes me as the juices burn through me, turning me into chyme.
The stomach finally pushes me through the pyloric sphincter into the small intestine. I know the worst is over, but I’m not gonna be the dark haired, mysterious P.I. I once was. I’d be lucky to work as a bouncer in the shady red light district night clubs I frequent on lonely nights. Hell, I’d seen worse, and I probably still would.
I knew what was coming next. The liver would ooze bile into the gallbladder. From there, it would enter the duodenum and lie there, waiting to end my meaningless existence. I had a death wish. Anne knew it. The duodenum begins to excrete another form of amylase to break me down into maltose, lactose, and sucrose. Simple sugars. Right back where I’d started. Maltase, lactase, and sucrase begin to chop me into smaller bits, where I then form glucose, and enter the bloodstream. After being broken down, I feel naked. Naked and alone. As I am absorbed through the intestinal walls to the bloodstream, I look back.
Anne. The dame with legs up to the sky, and an attitude that left me wanting more. I had been set up. It was a suicide mission. Nobody leaves the digestive system alive. I guess I had known that. Anne got out of this fifty cheaper, and I went into this fifty drunker. It was a job to die for, and I took it in a heartbeat.
From the Files of:
Al Dente: Private Eye
A modern P.I. novel.
Special thanks to:
Nicholas Chalmers Andriano, the best research assistant a man could ask for.
Andrew MP Wyslotsky (was originally a cursive font)
Andrew M.P. Wyslotsky
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